Unauthorized Access

by Andrew McAllister

  “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

  Dysart shut his phone and smiled. Perhaps the end was in sight.

  * * *

  Rob tried to lunge at Landry. All he managed to do was rock the chair on its castors. A spear of agony shot through the back of his head.

  Landry laughed at him. “What are you going to do,” he said, “bite me?”

  Rob slumped back in the chair and glared at Landry.

  “Tough guy’s not feeling talkative, eh?” Landry said. “Maybe we’ll see about that.” He lashed out and caught Rob just below the left kneecap with the barrel of the pistol.

  Rob screamed as his leg exploded in spasms of hot agony. Clenching his teeth, he leaned his head forward and tried to ride out the throbbing waves emanating from his knee.

  A hand grabbed Rob’s hair and forced his head back. Landry was on his feet again, his face thrust into Rob’s.

  “I could use that keyword now,” Landry said.

  Rob licked his lips, tasting the blood and mucous there. Before he could think what he was doing, he spat a big gob of the stuff into Landry’s face.

  Landry recoiled and let out a startled grunt. He shook with fury as he wiped his sleeve across his eyes. With an angry roar he spun and landed a vicious kick in the middle of Rob’s chest.

  Rob and his chair flew backwards and slammed into one of the desks with a load crack. He tipped over and ended up lying half underneath the desk with the chair’s casters wobbling madly. Rob lay awkwardly on his side, still tied to the chair. He struggled to draw in a breath.

  Landry advanced on him, still holding the gun and looking like he wanted to use it. With his free hand he grabbed Rob under one arm, braced a foot against the base of the chair and started to pull Rob upright. Before he could finish, he groaned and dropped Rob back to the floor, where he landed with a painful grunt. Landry grabbed his middle and doubled over.

  “Not again,” he said.

  Still holding his stomach, Landry ran through the door that led into the garage.

  Rob moaned as he lay there with the weight of his body on his left arm. Every part of his body was complaining at the same time except for his feet and hands, which were still numb. His right hand started to tingle—a sharp, stinging sensation. He shifted his shoulder to try to relieve the pressure on his bound wrist. And it worked. The arm of the chair creaked and shifted slightly. Blood trickled beneath the rope into his right hand, increasing the unpleasant tingles at first, then offering glorious relief.

  The tiny respite was so wonderful that Rob didn’t recognize the importance of this development at first, but then it dawned on him—the arm of the chair had moved.

  He tugged the ropes on that side and the arm of the chair creaked again. The collision with the desk must have cracked it.

  Rob wiggled his wrist back and forth to move the ropes up on the arm of the chair. Using the increased leverage, he yanked and was rewarded with the most promising creak yet. The crack opened slightly where the arm curved upwards to join the back of the chair. He started jerking inwards and outwards frantically, using strength he didn’t know he had left. On the fourth pull the crack in the arm let go with a snap. The remaining portion swiveled toward him easily, popping out of the hole in the wooden seat so Rob’s wrist was left tied to a boomerang-shaped hunk of wood.

  He slid the rope off the splintered end, shook the coils off his hand and flexed his fingers until he had enough feeling back to have a go at the knots on his left hand.

  These were difficult to reach, however, since they were tied on the outside of the left chair arm and were currently trapped under Rob’s entire weight. He tried rocking back and forth to flip the chair onto the other side but realized quickly this was futile. Reaching down to his left ankle, Rob yanked furiously on the bonds there but made no discernible progress.

  Rob slumped back onto his left shoulder, shaking from tension and exhaustion. How could he be so close and not be able to finish the job? He wondered how long it would be before Landry returned. The thought galvanized him into action once more.

  He took a deep breath. Come on, think.

  Leaning over to look at his ankles, he saw why he hadn’t made any headway on his previous, panicky attempt. He was tied with one continuous length of rope, which meant that the loops around his ankles were connected to his wrists. He couldn’t free his left ankle because of his left wrist. But his right wrist was already freed.

  He grabbed the length of rope previously connected to his right wrist. By wriggling this and his right leg in unison, he freed his right ankle and then his left in quick succession. His feet assaulted him with an explosion of screaming pins and needles.

  With his legs free, he was able to shift his weight off the chair and untie his left hand, which joined the chorus of painful tingles. He rose shakily onto his hands and knees, wondering if he could trust himself enough to try standing up. The knee Landry had bashed with the pistol chimed in with a resounding no, but was overruled when Rob heard the sound of a toilet flushing out in the garage.

  He scrambled to his feet and started for the outside door, then froze when he heard Landry’s footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the garage. Rob knew he would never win a foot race in his condition. He doubted he could even get outside before Landry would be on him. And if flight was out of the question, it had to be fight.

  Rob swiveled his head in a desperate search for some sort of weapon. His eyes fell on the hunk of solid wood that used to be a chair arm. Snatching it up, Rob shuffled quietly to one side of the inner doorway. His only hope was to launch a surprise attack before Landry noticed the empty chair. Rob had no illusions as to what would happen if Landry escaped his initial assault. Grasping the wooden arm with both hands, Rob coiled himself and raised his hands high like a baseball batter getting ready to receive the pitch.

  Landry started speaking even before he was fully in the doorway.

  “So, have you decided to—”

  He got no further. Rob put all his strength into the swing. Landry managed to duck slightly before the makeshift club connected solidly enough with the top of his head that his knees buckled and he fell on his back just inside the door.

  Rob didn’t wait to see the effect of his first blow. As soon as Landry landed, Rob started kicking him, first to the head, then to the midriff. Landry was able to get his arms up and partially deflect some of the blows, but after a frenzied flurry of solid kicks found their mark, Landry lay still.

  Still wary of his captor, Rob backed away a step and stood there panting. The aches and pains that had left him in the rush of adrenaline now assailed him once more. He could barely believe what he saw. The bushy mustache, which was apparently fake, lay coated with dust a few feet away from Landry. The curly, graying wig had flown off and lay in a heap next to the doorjamb. Landry’s wavy blond hair was now only partially covered by a latex skull cap.

  The radical transformation of appearance held Rob transfixed for a few moments. Then Landry groaned and turned his head to one side. He was coming to. The spell broken, Rob limped to the outer door, threw it open and went outside.

  The car was still in the parking lot. Rain danced off the roof of the car and soaked Rob almost immediately. He considered going back inside for the keys, but the thought of facing Landry again got him jogging across to the fence as quickly as he could. He ran with lurching strides and threw frequent glances back over his shoulder, expecting to see Landry in pursuit, waving his gun at him.

  Rob groaned. The gun. Why hadn’t he looked for it? Too late now.

  He passed through the gate. A lone car drove by with its headlights on against the deepening Friday evening gloom. He turned left and trotted along the sidewalk. His knee loosened up more and more as he did so.

  At the first street corner he paused and tried to decide which direction to turn. To his right lay the dark desolation of fenced-in warehouses, construction sites and, eventually, the waterfront. Rob shivered and wiped rainwater from his
forehead and eyes. He had no desire to wander that territory alone at night. Instead he headed up the hill and almost immediately found himself in a residential area.

  He kept to the shadows as much as he could. All the while he felt like a dark Buick was sure to come hurtling up behind him at any moment. He slowed to a walk as a stitch in his side developed, but the image of Landry’s face got him trotting again.

  Before long he saw the lights of a convenience store burning at the end of the block. He felt like a desert wanderer happening upon an oasis.

  An old-fashioned bell tinkled overhead as Rob entered the tiny store. The teenaged boy behind the counter looked like he was struggling to grow a straggly red beard, but his age and genetics weren’t cooperating. Rob was surprised when the young man looked at him with such alarm. Then he remembered how he must look.

  “Can I use your phone?” he said.

  The guy just blinked.

  “It’s an emergency,” Rob said. He spread his hands. “Can’t you tell by the look of me? And it’ll be a local call.”

  The young man nodded earnestly.

  “Sure,” he said and produced a phone from under the counter.

  Rob dialed nine, one, and had his finger poised over the one button when he changed his mind. He hung up. What could the police do for him at this point? His captor had started to wake up when Rob took off, and would surely be long gone before the cops could arrive. Rob would be stuck looking at mug shots all night. And when he finally got to leave he’d be right back where he was now—scared to go anywhere that someone might know to look for him.

  What if he asked to be locked up for his own good? Rob dismissed that thought immediately. No way he wanted to spend even one more minute in jail if he could help it.

  Rob’s head buzzed with pain and exhaustion. He needed someone to think for him, to tell him what he should do. He picked up the phone again and dialed a number he knew from memory. To his immense relief the call was answered after only one ring.

  * * *

  Dysart was barely able to concentrate enough to drive as he worked his way home through the residential streets. He remained convinced that Landry must have Rob, but if that was true then he couldn’t understand why Landry hadn’t called. Surely Rob wouldn’t be able to resist Landry’s brand of persuasion. Dysart felt like First Malden’s entire future was teetering on the edge of destruction, and the next phone call he received was likely to tip things in one direction or the other.

  His breath caught when the phone in his pocket trilled, but then his heart sank when he realized it was his personal cell rather than Landry’s special phone. He pulled to the curb and flipped open the phone.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Stan, thank God I got you. I really need your help. Can you come pick me up right away?”

  Dysart hesitated when he heard Rob’s voice. What the hell was going on? Didn’t Landry have him?

  “Stan, are you there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. What’s going on?”

  “This is going to sound weird but I’ve had the worst night you can imagine. I just spent the last couple of hours tied to a chair while this guy beat on me. I thought he was going to kill me but I managed to get away.”

  Dysart clutched the phone so hard the skin around his fingernails turned white. This was not possible. For all the money he was paying Landry. How could the idiot get bested by Rob? By a child!

  “You’re kidding,” Dysart said.

  “I’m scared he’s going to come after me again and … I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “You did the right thing. Where are you?”

  Rob told him.

  Dysart thought fast. He still might be able to salvage the situation.

  “All right,” he said. “Stay where you are. I’ll come get you.”

  “Hurry, okay?”

  “Of course. Just stay put.”

  Dysart hung up, pulled out the other cell and started angrily punching buttons.

  * * *

  The bottom drawer of a filing cabinet swam into view, still bearing a cardboard label with the letters M-Z scrawled on it. Landry felt like he had been run over by a stampede. He tried to sit up but felt dizzy as soon as he made it up onto one elbow. After a pause to let his head settle, he sat up fully and rested with his elbows on his knees.

  Rob’s chair still lay on its side with the discarded rope nearby. The arm missing from the chair made it clear how Rob had gotten loose. Landry shook his head. How could he have been so careless? He spotted his pistol lying ten feet away under a desk. Apparently Rob was careless too.

  He stood up and took inventory of his battered body. His head pounded and he was sore all over, but his wooziness was gone and everything seemed to be in working order. After removing the silencer, the gun went back under his jacket.

  How long had he been unconscious? He glanced at his watch. Couldn’t have been long—ten minutes, maybe. Enough to give Rob a good head start, anyway.

  Landry noticed what looked like a dead rat lying at the edge of the floor. His hand went to his head and found the wig missing and the latex cap torn almost all the way off. He removed it completely, then stooped over and picked up the wig. A few seconds of scanning the floor turned up the dusty mustache as well.

  He was standing there staring at them when his cell phone rang.

  “Yeah?” Landry said.

  “What the hell is going on?” Dysart said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A certain young man just called me. Said he got away from someone. I assume it was you.”

  Landry cursed silently. “He got the jump on me.”

  “Did he at least give up the keyword first?”

  “No.”

  “Dammit,” Dysart said.

  “Did he say where he was?”

  “A convenience store on D Street, a few blocks from that deserted truck repair place I told you about.”

  That got Landry moving. He opened the outside door and ran into the parking lot with the phone still held to his ear.

  “He can’t be far then,” he said as he yanked open his car door. “I should be able to catch up to him if he’s still on foot.”

  He cranked the starter and shifted into reverse.

  “It’s better than that,” Dysart said. “He’s waiting at the store for me to pick him up.”

  Landry blinked and stepped on the brakes.

  “You’re picking him up?” he asked.

  “No, you idiot. You are. By the time I get there I expect you to have scooped him up and be long gone. I’ll wait around a while and then go home.”

  Landry allowed himself a grin, then winced slightly as he stretched his split lip.

  “I’m on it,” he said, and ended the call.

  Dysart would get his keyword all right. As for what to do with Rob—well, there was going to be a change of plans in that department. Rob had seen Landry’s real appearance. He could identify Landry in a mug shot or lineup. Or in court. The remainder of the fee from Dysart didn’t matter anymore. Rob had to disappear for good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WHEN ROSE WAS ready to leave, mother and daughter came together for one more hug in the foyer of Lesley’s apartment.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Rose said.

  Lesley rubbed her eyes, which had finally stopped leaking. “Sure, Mom. I know you have to get home.”

  “I could take a vacation day tomorrow if you need me to stay.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  Lesley began doubting these words almost as soon as her mother was gone. She contemplated the total mess her life had become. For the rest of her days she would probably be known as the cyberterrorist’s girlfriend.

  Ex-girlfriend, she reminded herself.

  All because of Rob’s childish stunt. Lesley felt the frustration well up inside her again, like a geyser that threatened to explode in her brain. She headed for her bedroom, intent on finishing her packing and e
scaping to Stan and Sheila’s place.

  The buzzer rang. Someone was in the lobby.

  “Leave me alone,” she shouted. Her words echoed futilely in the stillness of the apartment. She stomped out to the hallway, jabbed at the intercom button and said, “What?”

  “It’s Tim. Can I come up?”

  Lesley let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. At least it wasn’t a reporter.

  “Sure, come on up.”

  He arrived at her door holding a box covered in wrapping paper.

  “I heard you were having a rotten day,” he said.

  Lesley’s nose wrinkled in puzzlement as she closed the door behind him. “Who told you that?”

  “I was talking to Rob. He said you broke up.”

  “Yeah, well … it’s been a heck of a week.”

  Tim hesitated, then held up the box. “Do you want to open this now?”

  He looked like such an innocent, standing there offering up the brightly wrapped box. Lesley sighed and the tension inside her loosened a bit.

  “Thanks,” she said, reaching out to take it. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  She ripped off the wrapping paper. The present turned out to be a box of gourmet chocolates.

  “I figured any day can only get better when you add chocolate to it,” Tim said.

  “They look great. I’m not very good company, but if you’re willing to risk it, I could make some coffee to go with them.”

  “Sure.”

  Tim sat at the table while Lesley busied herself with the coffeemaker. Her hands trembled as she ripped open a packet of French Roast and emptied it into the filter. More than a few grains ended up on the counter. She crossed over to the sink and filled the pot. As she turned back, the coffee pot slipped from Lesley’s hand and smashed on the kitchen floor. The black plastic handle and spout lay at Lesley’s feet while glass shards were strewn everywhere in the puddle of water that covered most of the floor. She recoiled with a start against the kitchen counter.

  “Oh God,” she said, then dropped to one knee and started picking up pieces of glass as quickly as she could. She felt a sharp pain in her right thumb and saw blood appear on the dampness on her skin. She dropped the pieces of glass, clenched her eyes shut and lowered her head onto her hands, which were now balled into fists.